


Sir Elyan Beneath the Hill

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:04:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death, for Sir Elyan, is not the end. But where is he headed? Into the dark. And will he come out? Will he find rest?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sir Elyan Beneath the Hill

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: cannon death, sort of. Elyan dies, basically, but that's ONLY THE BEGINNING!

When Elyan fights the enchanted blade he knows he's going to die. He can't survive this, and he understands that this is the end. He fights anyway, and he fights hard. Harder than he's ever fought before. Arthur's always been complimentary about Elyan's technique, he once even told Elyan that he was the only one who had 'everything'. Whatever that meant. So Elyan calls up everything he knows, everything he's learnt, everything his king taught him. 

And then he falls back and fights the way he and Gwen used to fight, instead. Thrown out the back of the forge by their father after getting too much in the way, wooden swords wittled by Tom in the evenings, they'd run and jumped and parried and learnt. The sweat on his face mingles with his tears and he closes his eyes, using his other senses, body moving with sense memory, feet quick and easy. 

He loses. Of course he loses, he knew he would. But as he falls he's back, back in those sun soaked days behind the forge, before he became so restless, before his thirst for knowledge and experience took him away from home, away from the safety of Gwen. Coming back to her had always been wonderful, and before his last breath comes, he recalls the happy days before Morgana's resurgence, serving the king and loving Gwen and feeling he was finally home. Her name is on his lips as he falls into his final rest. 

Elyan is a good man, and a good man believes certain things about death. He's grown up to believe these things and as a knight they are reinforced. He upholds them, out there in the wild, and he upholds them at home. Yet it is not what he expects, when he dies. He finds himself floating, and for a moment he feels at peace, but then the water washes over him and salts his lips and tongue, and he struggles up, up out of the waves and towards the shore. 

He's met by a frail young woman with a smile that could light up any darkness. She bows and welcomes him, naming herself as Freya and invoking Merlin's name to earn his trust. Merlin's name, and Merlin's true name; Emrys. Elyan finds no shock or anger at that. Merlin never deserved anything but total, unquestioning loyalty and respect. Arthur demanded it, but giving it to Merlin himself. Unswerving belief. 

“I do not understand,” Elyan says, as he's lead across the isle towards a hill. 

“You are one of the knights, one of King Arthur's knights. Here is where you rest, until he calls for you once more,” Freya says. 

“He wins, then? Against Morgana?”

“He is once and future, sir knight, he will live many, many times. Wherever darkness is, so he will be. And one day a greater darkness will fall, and he will call, and you will ride. It has been forseen.”

Freya stops by the hill and points Elyan to a great stone doorway. He must go on alone. He passes the threshold and the air changes, the bright soft sun exchanged for dim cold. He presses his fingers to the wall and waits for his eyes to adjust, wishing for his sword. His fingers curl over the hilt, and to his surprise they find it. Still there, hung from his belt, welcoming his hand. He draws and moves forward with caution. 

The tunnel echoes with his steps, and the air cools further as he goes on. He comes to a fork and turns to the left, but finds only solid wall, so he must go right. He winds his way deeper and deeper into the hill, into deeper darkness, the chill settling into his bones. He shivers, and all of a sudden he knows in his gut that he absolutely must go back, get out. He retreats, stumbling backwards. 

His hand presses to the wall and the cold stone reminds him of the cells where Gwen found him, after all those years. So cold and so helpless, and there she was, warm and familiar and lovely. Gwen, his oft-saviour, his protector. His queen. And Arthur, the man she had loved so deeply it had broken spells and made him a better man, made him honourable. Made him brave. The man who'd come to save him, because Gwen knew how to love with nothing held back. Elyan tightens his grip on his sword and walks through the chill, teeth grinding, body straining to go back. He presses on. 

The feeling deepens, but he doesn't give in. He holds Gwen in his mind, and he goes forward not back. Always move forwards, Elyan, to go back is to re-tread a path you've already taken. To go forward is to find new paths, the old steps worn in your heart and always with you. I'm always with you. Gwen had told him that, before he left to seek his fortune. She had wanted him to go, had helped him, had asked only that he write. Which he did not. 

Elyan turns a bend and, acting on instinct before he knows what anything is, he sinks into defence, sword up, ready. His sight catches up with his other senses and before him, in the centre of the tunnel, is a woman. She's just standing there, smiling at him. She's the most lovely woman he's ever seen, and Gwen goes out of his head. Gwen doesn't hold a candle to this woman. Elyan drops his sword and bows, deep, deeper, as deep as he can. 

“My lady,” he says, when he dares rise. 

“Sir knight, you have come,” she says, and her voice is rich and dark and everything, everything.

Elyan bows again, breath catching, and when he straightens he stumbles forwards, closer, reaching for her. She bows her head and Elyan's fingers brush the air, so close, so close to her skin. Before he makes contact, though, he pulls sharply back. He doesn't know why. The way the sea water is still soaking him, the chill in the air, the sense of something. It's familiar. 

“You are not real,” Elyan says. 

“I can be whatever you like,” the lady says, shimmering. 

In her place stands a young man, the lady's pale skin darkening, darkening, past his tone and Gwen's and deeper and deeper. Lithe and tall and incredibly beautiful he stands before Elyan and waits, there simply for Elyan, for no other reason than Elyan willed it, somehow. Elyan once more reaches out, but once again pulls back.

“No,” he says, “this isn't right.”

The person before him shimmers again and changes. Skin shifting, shape moving. Neither man nor woman, standing before Elyan, more beautiful still. Everything. Elyan reaches a third time, but pulls back, finally stepping back. 

“No,” he says, bending to reach his sword, not taking his eyes off the person before him. 

They smile and shimmer, skin turning still darker, and then they bow to Elyan. 

“Three times you were tested, three times tempted, and three times you resisted. You may pass onwards unharmed, Sir Elyan The Pure of Heart, Sir Elyan the Brave.”

Elyan moves past, still not touching, still not putting his back to the still-bowed body. The next tunnel is lighter, and Elyan is glad. The end is close. He speeds up, eager. He has passed, the person said so, he will not be harmed. He comes round another bend. He pulls up short. The blade that ended his life is there, hanging in the air, the same again. Elyan stops still and doesn't move. The sword senses him anyway and points his way, right at his heart.

“No, not again,” Elyan says. 

He hefts his blade, however, and prepares to fight. Gwen flashes again through his mind and he holds her in his heart. He draws in breath long and steady. The first parry is easy, a test of strength, but soon the blows are quick and fierce and growing more so. Elyan's blade meets the enemy over his head, to the right. He falls to his knee and twists, rolls out of the way and to his feet, back to the passage onwards. 

Elyan faces the blade and they circle, then once more he's parrying blow after blow, dodging, footwork practised. He's growing desperate. He's already fought this once, and he has a deep fear that he's back there, that he's supposed to save Gwen, that he's failing. He jumps back and falls, flipping and rolling away, leaping to his feet. When he meets the sword, though, in a great clash, it disintegrates into dust and ash around him. 

“Elyan The Strong,” the very air whispers. 

Elyan passes onwards. He's more wary, this time, and the lightening air makes him only suspicious. He rounds corners blade first, and is more careful of each step. He reaches the lightest tunnel yet and the whispers in the air grow to laughter, talking. He follows the sound to another great stone arch, and looks into a huge hall, carved out of the rock of the hill. Within the chamber is a great table, the length of which is piled high with food and wine, knights and ladies sitting around laughing, singing, talking loudly and joyfully. 

Elyan moves inside the arch, slow, on guard, using the skills Arthur honed in him to hunt. Gwen had not loved the hunt, but she had loved how happy it made her husband. There was a brief spell of time when she had seemed almost afraid when they rode out, and angry when they returned, especially if they brought a deer, but that had passed. Merlin had talked with her a lot during that time. 

As Elyan passes the stone arch, the sound and light die away. The men and women who moments before could not be more alive turn to bone and rusted metal, the food to decay, and spiders web and dust coat everything. Elyan sheaths his blade, sensing he will not need it. There's very soft music in the air and he recalls old stories of the sidhe, but he isn't afraid. 

He moves to the table and finds, to his surprise, a jug of water. He has a sudden thirst and pours some out into a goblet, emptying out dust and dead spiders first. He raises the goblet to his lips and his thirst grows. The water inside is clear and inviting, and his throat is burning, aching with tightness. Still he hesitates. 

It's just water, he tells himself, but a small voice sounding suspiciously Merlin like reminds him that, so far, things have not been what they seemed here. It's a force of will, putting the goblet on the table once more, forcing his hand to lower. He arm jerks as he sets it down and the water spills out. The sound of laughter and talk is loud in his ears once more, golden light spreading with the puddle of water. Elyan watches the colour and life return where the water falls, dimming again as the water hits the floor. 

“What am I here for?” Elyan asks.

“You are here to chose,” Freya says, appearing before him in red and gold, smiling softly, “you may stay here and live among the people you have seen, live the life you have seen, forever.”

“Or?”

“Or you may pass onwards, to I do not know what.”

“And if I remain here,” Elyan says, thirst rising again, yearning to join the cheerful crowd, “what of Arthur? Will I hear him call?”

“You will not,” Freya says, “but, you have played your part, surely? Given enough? You have been loyal and true, no one would think less of you for this choice.”

“If I remain, I will lose Gwen,” Elyan says, drawing his sword once more, squaring his shoulder, “I will betray my king, I will lose my friends. No, I will not stay. I cannot stay.”

“Then pass on, Sir Elyan of Great Will,” Freya says, vanishing again. 

Elyan looks once more at the table, at the golden reflection in the water, closes his mind to the music pulling at him, and passes down the long hall, steps echoing into the hill. At the far end, behind the final seat at the table, is a small doorway. Elyan has to bend to pass through. He holds his sword in front of him and presses on. 

Beyond the tight passage is another tunnel, this one cleaner hewn. At the end is a great, iron-bound door, Woodbine growing thick and wild from the hinges, spreading. And Woodbine to close the circle a voice says in Elyan's memory, a soft voice, a woman who had come to him for a place to hide, a magic user. Elyan had been wary, but she had been alone and afraid and her eyes had reminded him of Gwen. Woodbine to close the spell, to complete the seal. Woodbine to close. 

Elyan approaches the door, reaches out to touch the wood, the flowers. Then pulls away, remembering his earlier encounters. How is he to open the door without touching it? Perhaps this is a mind test. Elyan looks around him for inspiration, and his gaze lands on the setting in his sword-pommel. Silver rounds. He draws his knife and starts digging the silver out. 

He gets three rounds and sheaths sword and knife, then removes his belt and sets his weaponry against the wall. He won't need it. He palms the silver and approaches the door again. Silver offers protection from a spell. It won't protect entirely, but it may soak up some of the effect. Elyan touches the wood only briefly, with a knuckle. Nothing happens. He takes hold of the great iron closure and releases the door as fast as he might. The silver heats in his palm and he hisses, dropping it, hand burning. There's a welt on his skin, but as he watches, pain blazing, it heals and cools. 

Using his second round of silver he pushes the door until that, too, burns against him. His final round lasts long enough that the door has creaked and cracked open, woodbine curling and uncurling and tearing against the edge. Elyan slides through the gap and into the darkness. The door shuts solidly and finally behind him. He has no weapons, no silver, nothing but the clothes he stands in. 

The dark is absolute, he cannot see. He uses his other senses, but there's nothing. No echo, no wall within reach, no sound. Even when he stamps, no sound. He turns, and turns again, but nothing. He's come all this way and there's nothing but darkness. Elyan feels despair enter his heart. He wants nothing more than to sit and weep, and give up. 

He cannot, though. He will not. He breathes deep and closes his eyes, recalling his father telling soft stories around the forge at night, working some piece of armour or some small gift for one of them. Gwen and Elyan sitting entranced as his loved voice weaves tales around them. Elyan breathes out slow and recalls Gwen's voice retelling those old stories, thick as honey, equally loved, home. He breathes in and recalls the surge of pride and joy as he was knighted, Gwen's pride as well as his own. He breathes in and calls on Arthur, on his king. He calls his king and his king answers, beating in his heart, blood rising. Gwen. Arthur's love for Gwen made him a great king. 

Gwen.

Elyan opens his eyes, and where there was darkness there's soft light, where there was cold there's warmth, and stood before him is Lancelot. Elyan embraces him without hesitation, holding him close, and Lancelot embraces him in return. 

“It is good to see you, Sir Elyan,” Lancelot says. 

“And you too, old friend,” Elyan says in reply, withdrawing to look once more at the lost knight, “we thought never to see you more.”

“I returned to the lake.”

“As I did.”

“As we all must. The salt water lake that is unique, salted by too much magic, by Emrys in many life times. Residue. And we all must return to the water.”

“And here we are, what are we to do?”

“We must be loyal to Arthur, to our king.”

“To our Queen, also,” Elyan says.

“Yes. Come, there are many you must meet, and then we must rest. There will be many to welcome.”

Elyan meets knights he's heard stories about, Owain, Pelinor. He meets ladies Arthur held in high regard. He meets Sir Ranulf, a big man with skin darker than Elyan's ever seen, kind eyes and a strong handshake. He meets many, and then he rests.


End file.
